Quilted Woman
There is a woman who quilts
and keeps calico cats
in the stacks of batiks
that cover her house,
and her liver spot skin
is a stretched Pollock print.
It’s a dangerous pattern,
her bones sewn within.
And her poetry’s pieces,
her prose cut apart,
but she seamlessly speaks
from her thread-tethered heart.
And her cat is a quilt
and her home is a quilt
and her skin is a quilt
and her voice is a quilt
and her life has been built
by the scraps left behind:
her memory, the thread; the needle, her mind.
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